Worth
by SyriMoon
Summary: He'd never questioned it; Britannia's policies sought to rid the world of the weak,infirm and useless. But now that his country has deemed him, a royal prince, as one unfit to live, Alistair is forced to reevaluate his own right to survive. Heavily OC
1. Prologue

Well. I don't know if anyone is even gonna read this, or even take a peak, but I hope someone does.

To help entice, let me rant and summarize.

I've taken creative liberty and put my own spin on Britannian eugenics. Little is actually given in the series about how and if they practice it, but it doesn't seem like aaany stretch of the imagination to assume they do. Nunnally was declared worthless after being crippled, after all, and Charles rants at length about how the weak and infirm are nothing.

Thus, I began to wonder, what would happen if one of those seen unfit to live happened to be one of the family's own? Would the rules break? How would they deal with the same of having a substandard child in their midst? How would he be treated?

Thus the idea of Alistair was born, several years ago, an idea of mine and a friend's. The story begins at 14, but will stretch the better part of 20 years.

Please, do give it a chance.

)o(

He'd been here before, fourth floor, locked wing. Where they kept all the underage nutjobs, like himself. His neighbor on the other side of the couch was a girl about his age, who did nothing but cry. It wasn't even a productive cry either, just a strained little whimper that stretched into long, irritating notes. Alistair found it pitiful; didn't she know that's not how you did it? A good, shrieking, sobbing fit would have been far more productive for a good bit of attention. Or she could go a more subtle route, and sit quietly in the corner and cry. The latter strategy involved a lot of patience, as it could be hours before anyone found you, but the swollen eyes and tearstains were great for guilt trips. When he pulled that one on Odysseus, it was only moments after being found that he'd be scooped up and held and spoken to in that gentle, tender voice he loved so much.

Seriously, this chick wasn't gonna get anywhere. Amateur.

Across the room was a group of boys he thought shouldn't really be allowed to be hanging out together. Alistair wasn't the kind to stereotype but he considered any 17 year old who carved satanic verses into his arms with a broken light bulb to be not such good news.

Another girl was silently watching the tv they had bolted to the wall, not seeming to be much interested in the adventures of little Laura Ingalls. Neither was Alistair, really. He just kept imagining the fit Clovis would have over their fashion choices.

His stomach gave a sharp lurch as his brother crossed his mind. He'd been far too unconscious at the time (great amounts of blood loss tend to do that) to remember, but he knew now that Clovis was the one who found him. Hell, he was surprised his older brother wasn't a patient with him here; he was sure he now officially fucked him up for life. He supposed, though, it would be harder to hide who Clovis was. As fourth Prince, Alistair never got much of a face for the media. A false last name, and no one seemed to even know who he was. Good thing when your father doesn't give enough a shit about you to send you to a specialist who might actually be able to help. Nope, public access hospital was deemed good enough for his sixth child.

He hated that guilty pit in his stomach. It was the same one he got when he'd see the tired, weary lines on Odysseus's face, after trying for hours to calm and console Alistair in a tantrum. He always felt so sick, if only fleetingly, at how old his 24 year old brother often looked, particularly last week when he'd woke up in ICU, and he knew Oddie hadn't slept all night.

He curled up on the threadbare couch he sat on. Clovis wasn't supposed to come back. He wasn't supposed to see him at all. He should have gone to school the next morning and not have known till later. Course, he knew at the time, that would leave Odysseus to find him. That wasn't fair to his oldest brother, he knew, but he knew Oddie wouldn't have wanted it to be Clovis either.

Much of this was only in retrospect, of course. At the time, he hadn't been thinking about anyone else really. He barely recalls his fit, smashing the mirror to bits in his bathroom…his psychiatrist, the new one with the liver spots, told his family it was likely a bad combination of pills that spurred his second attempt. Too many antidepressants who didn't want to make nice with the antipsychotics and whatever. Alistair didn't care. It was just making excuses, and he knew his brothers would cling to them. If they could prove, somehow, that his relapse had been the result of a doctors mistakes, the clock wouldn't start again. He'd be safe…

He knew it was a lie. On some level, perhaps they all did, but they had to try. He'd been in remission only a few months, free of the…voices. Of the screaming, of the rocking, sobbing…Alistair curled tighter, his guilt knot refusing to ease. Times like these, he wished he'd never gotten that idea two years ago. He'd been only 12, he hadn't realized the reprucussions on his actions. He just wanted his mother again, she'd been gone so long, over a year. He missed her, he needed her, and it made such sense then. She was sick, and she was sent away, so if he was sick too, maybe they'd send him!

That was two years ago. Two years of pretending, two years of perfected acting, of immersing himself so strongly and deeply into his role that…he didn't know, now, where it stopped being an act. Couldn't recall what day it was that he woke up and his anxiety wasn't fake, where the idea of being left alone for even a few minutes set him to a panic. Somewhere between 12 and fourteen, something went wrong.

Mother always taught him it was wrong to lie. He'd listened vaguely, knowing everyone lied, everyone told falsehoods, especially within his family. He wished he'd listened to her. If he hadn't began that tale, he could have left his issues at the depression he'd had. He'd have grieved, and moved on. Instead, he had to cling to his distress, magnify it, twist it. He just wanted his mother, just wanted that tender love given as a child.

But now he was paying for his actions. The pain he caused his brother's, he could live with that, could deny his guilt and shove it down, as long as he tempered them with smiles and good days later. He could live with the hospital visits and the medications, but…he might not have to much longer.

He flopped over onto his side, still clutching his middle, and wanting badly to throw up.

He might not have to live with it much longer. He was a Class III mental patient after all. Class III, three years before he was declared incurable, a waste of resources. If trial couldn't prove his last doc was a whack, then his clock began ticking again.

Pity it had passed two years already.

)o(

Thank whoever has given me a try. I hope you'll continue to sample!


	2. Echo

Alistair didn't want to go into his bedroom. He stood at the threshold, balking as he surveyed what use to be his private retreat and sanctuary. Looking around at the now barren suite, he realized he should have known better than to ever label anything as private or his. In this palace, in this family, nothing was truly yours. Your home, your belongings, your freedom, all belonged to father, to the media, to whatever "greater good" was deemed worthy at the time.

Still, despite having grown up knowing this one simple rule, it struck Alistair coldly when he opened his bedroom door. Just two weeks ago, the large connecting rooms had been overflowing with evidence that its native dweller was a teenage boy. The large bookcases lining the walls of his living room had been crammed with the broken spines of horror novels, each more grisly and macabre than the last. The gleaming hardwood had been mostly covered by oriental and Persian rugs, their elaborate designs perfect for hiding the stains of spilled juice and ground in chocolate crumbs. His draperies had been deep crimson, his favorite color, and pale cream walls were adorned corner to corner with art, his own landscapes, his mother's abstracts, Clovis's portraits.

Now, the rooms he'd grown up in were hollow and barren as the hospital room he'd just left behind, and just as impersonal. During his absence, someone, he couldn't say who, though he suspected the offender was wide, gray, and far too old to still be procreating, had ordered Alistair's room to be stripped. Doctor's orders, his brothers had told him, but he doubted that. If Dr. Liver Spots had been so concerned about Alistair trying to kill himself, he'd have kept him locked away in the psych ward a little longer.

No, this was father's work, and he knew better than to pretend it was an act done out of concern for his son's well being.

A strong hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he winced under the force. Alistair, at 14, stood at average height and weighed maybe 120 pounds, while Odysseus had inherited their father's tank-like build, and often forgot his own blunt force. His hands were like those frying pans women in old sitcoms used to beat their husbands, but with the added danger of evolved thumbs.

"It's not so bad, Ali-Cat," he grinned, giving the shoulder he'd just dislocated a gentle rub. "And it's not permanent either. It's just…a precaution."

Alistair snorted, noting that even his books had been taken away.

"What do you think I'm going to do, try to bleed to death by means of Stephen King? Please, Oddie, I'm an artist. A Bible would be more poetic. A Bible makes everything more poetic."

Odysseus gave another firm squeeze, making Alistair grimace. He watched his older brother turn a sour shade; he'd call it Swedish Beige with an under current of chartreuse. Not a very aesthetic color.

"That isn't funny, Alistair," Odysseus murmured. He gave his brother a firm push, ushering him inside.

With no carpeting, no curtains and almost no furniture, Alistair could hear their footsteps echoing off the vaulted marble ceilings. Even without the trimmings, the room still absolutely dripped wealth. The crown molding alone, flaked with gold leafing, was worth more than he assumed most peasants made in a year, and everything from the floor panels to the marble counters in his bathroom were of a quality fit for no one but royalty. Yet surrounded by opulence and riches, Alistair would so rather just have his easel back.

"Where is everything?" he asked. Even his voice reverberated off the naked stone and glass, reaching his ears in a way that he supposed might be pretty.

Oddie too was surveying the room, and took a minute to answer. "In storage," he said vaguely. "You can have your things back once father's sure you aren't going to try and…hurt yourself again."

"Kill myself, Oddie," Alistair corrected. "Don't try and make it sound nicer. If I'd tried to hurt myself, I wouldn't be on Animal Control. Besides, what does it matter? According to him, I've got one year left. What would it matter if I just took the problem off their hands?"

He was pushing the envelope, again, and he knew it, but didn't much care. Odysseus scrubbed a hand over his face, scratching at the stubble he hadn't seemed to have the time or energy to shave recently, and turned away.

"Please, Ali-Cat? Stop talking like this? Nothing's going to happen to you."

Alistair snorted, and also turned his back to Odysseus, going instead to see how his bedroom had faired in the siege. He wasn't surprised when he found it was empty as the entrance room. His bed was still there, with a single set of sheets, but that was it. There wasn't even any hangers left in his closet; all his clothes had been folded into a chest of drawers.

He threw his duffle bag on his bed and followed, flopping onto his back and closing his eyes, taking a moment to savor being back in his own bed. Its plushiness welcomed him after so long on a stiff hospital bed.

He peeked over towards his door, hoping Odysseus wasn't going to follow him in. He didn't feel up to his company at the moment, and really hoped he'd just go.

With a wave of relief, he heard the firstborn's heavy, even footfalls crossing the floor, followed by the clunking of Alistair's latch.

Finally, Alistair felt room to breathe. He inhaled deeply, hoping to soak up some sort of familiarity in the scent of a now foreign room. He could still smell the acrylics he used, mingling beautifully with lacquered canvas, turpentine, adhesive and a slew of other chemicals known in some states to cause cancer.

Recalling the ominous warning labels his hobby came with, he inhaled deeply, a morbid part of his fucked up teenage psyche hoping it might hurry things along a little.

He rolled, noting easily that the sheets had been freshly laundered. They smelled like fancy detergent, not at all like Alistair, who also usually smelled of carcinogenic art supplies, and a lack of deodorant.

As he savored the only remaining tangible evidence that this room did, in fact, belong to him, he tried desperately to put his mental block back up. Usually, it was so easy in the comfort of his cave. His quarters were his domain, the one place in the palace where he could ascend birth order and feel like a king, even if only within these closed walls.

He rarely left his room, not since his mother had been sent away when he was 11. This had been her quarters as well, her only son having been so young still. He could still remember the fear and confusion he'd felt, waking up that February morning, and going to attempt to wake his mother. It was always a hard task, she slept so much. So many bottles of pills by her bedside; these to make her sleep, these to keep her awake, another to calm her crying, another to make her eat.

Alistair curled up in his bed, trying to warm himself in the Arizona sunlight streaming through his bare windows. He'd woken so late; for some reason, his alarm hadn't gone off. He woke up late, so late, immediately went to find her, but her bed hadn't been slept in. Her clothes weren't strewn across the floor as they often were. No half drank glass of water, no spilled bottles, nothing to indicate AnnaBelle had even gone to bed the previous night.

The desert heat did nothing to stop Alistair's chill as memories of the morning flooded through his mind like the many medications he now took. That was three years ago, and he hadn't heard anything of his mother since then. All he had was the hope that father spoke the truth when he told Alistair his mother was in a home for invalids, up near the East coast. He hoped it was true; mother was one of father's favorite lovers, and he prayed her status was enough to make her an exception to the three year rule.

He had to hope. If she would escape Britannia's harsh laws, surely he, someone of true royal blood, could too. He couldn't even dare to think she'd become a victim of "bettering the human gene pool," as he'd been taught. She was nobility, could trace her line back to the Scottish monarchy. He'd been taught the rules, the laws, but he'd also been raised to know that in most cases, his family was above petty rules.

He hoped this counted.

He breathed in again; he was becoming accustomed to the smell, and it didn't strike him as strongly. Ah, well. He couldn't feel too tore up about it. His sanctuary didn't seem as comforting as he remembered.

Ever since mother left, these rooms had been his escape. He didn't want to leave them, didn't want to have to associate with his many brothers and sisters, save for Clovis and Odysseus. Clovis was just his age, and his best friend, while Oddie was like a father to them both. Other then them, he really couldn't care. Schneizel was becoming some sort of political hot shot, and Cornelia was rarely home, and when she was, it was only long enough to dote on little Euphemia or Lelouch. Who needed to be around someone who only stared at him like he was some diseased scrap of trash, like Cornelia did, or seemed to already be planning what to say at his funeral?

Only foot thick stone walls could insulate him from their contempt, he often felt, and from everything else he'd rather lock away and not think about. Being outside with the others, with his half brothers and sisters, he couldn't handle that anymore. They weren't as patient with him as Oddie, didn't understand his…illness like Clovis did. He didn't want to be around them if he could help it. Whispers, he always heard them, babbles of gossip about poor Alistair, how sad, how awful, real pity.

He didn't want their pity. Or at least, not if all they had to offer was their empty words. That's not how his two brothers treated him.

Safe and sound in his shell, in his cozy safe corner of the world, he'd never had to face the pain on Oddie's face as he kicked at his shins and bit hard enough to leave scars on his hands and forearms. Never in here did he have to care about how tired he looked after he spent hours screaming obscenities at him. Outside, everyone overreacted to his fits, they acted afraid of him when he put on his best psychotic charade, and got as far away from him as they could, leaving him to feel like a self conscious freak. Can't hide form your own lies when everyone's watching. Course, he couldn't really remember what was a lie now, and what was slowly becoming true.

No one cared how loud he screamed in his own rooms, and he could easily pretend that Odysseus didn't care either, so long as he was there to listen, to soothe him, to try all night to get him to stop. No need to aknowledge the hurt in Clovis's eyes when he was being held. And, truly, he usually didn't care. Not so long as he was here, safe, loved.

Out there, he couldn't do that. Out there, Oddie looked so old, so worn and anxious. Alistair didn't want that. He was an artist, a painter of the unreal, one who crafter words to his liking, both on canvas and within these walls. And here he'd been a perfectly architectured masterpiece, complete with the masks they worse. He didn't want to see Odyssues tired and frustrated. No, no, he wanted the Oddie who came to him smiling, warm arms open just to cradle him, bring him sweets and rock him to sleep, and wiping tear stains from his cheeks. His world was too carefully painted to come unraveled there.

Though…he supposed it was too late. His castle was already crumbling.

The sunlight became too much for him; his windows faced West, and afternoon was blazing into his room rudely, without even being invited in. Bastard sunlight. That's why he preferred moonlit landscaped, or rainy hillsides. He got enough damned sun every day of the damned year, always too hot, too bright, especially in the layers of formalwear expected of a prince.

Alistair sought refuge in the further corners of the living room, where the sunstains hadn't reached yet, and the floorboards were cool, like the other side of the pillow.

He. Fucked. Up. That really was the only way he could describe his current situation. And being the overachiever he wasn't but could pretend to be for his mental analogy, he didn't just fuck up, he fucked up ROYAL…pun intended.

He supposed he'd just never taken it seriously. All his life he'd learned about eugenics, that long-ass word that was even harder to learn to spell than his own damned name (honestly, 27 legal ways to spell his name and his mother expected him to remember which one was his?) When he was small and sane, he'd nodded and agreed when the adults talked about such things, concepts of politics far beyond the grasp of a six year old who just wanted to go dag his prissy brother into the mud and laugh at the fit he'd throw.

He'd always known, like how to breathe, that the world was made up of the strongest survivors. It was one of the most basic concepts of evolution, a very, you snooze you loose sort of policy; simple, effective, and something he never paid mind to unless his tutors decided to test him on it.

So he'd never really thought it would end as it did. He just missed his mother. He'd grown up seeing her fits, how she'd cry and scream and burst into fits of hysterical laughter at times where such emotions made no sense. He remembered being so scared when his usually quiet mother would suddenly just begin to shriek at the top of her lungs, screaming and hollering but doing nothing else. Just sitting there, till she went hoarse.

It was ridiculously easy to copy, really. He was staring to suspect that the world famed Britannian doctors really didn't give much a shit about treating things like this; surely a 12 year old couldn't mimic the symptoms of disorganized schizophrenia so convincingly as to deceive not one but four separate psychiatrists. Or perhaps they just didn't care. Kids sick? Give him a pill. Kids got an infection? Give him a pill. Kids running around completely naked down the hallway laughing and pulling at his hair? Yup. Pills. Those particular ones were a lovely shade of green. Much better than the orange ones they gave him for the panic attacks. Orange was such a tacky color when it had a yellow base, and he refused to take them on principal. He was an artist, he had standards.

Whatever the reason they believed his surely bad acting were irrelevant now. Two years he kept it up, two years of shrinks and pills and two suicide attempts it took him to realize that no, the Britannian legal system didn't in fact make their euthanasia laws for grins and giggles. When they saw three years, they're kinda serious.

Alistair shivered despite the heat creeping closer, remembering the formal hearing he'd been given, the one he had to force himself to giggle through. To keep up appearances. But Oddie wasn't giggling. Out there in the open, in the outside, he couldn't pretend Odysseus didn't break down sobbing as soon as they left the courtroom and the judge who told him Alistair had one year left to recover. Even once he reached his safe rooms, he couldn't get that sound out of his head, nor the feeling of his crushing arms around him as he promised he wouldn't fail him this time.

He didn't know then. He hadn't realized…it was a game to him, not even a teenager when he began. Besides, he was royalty, haughty and pretentious. Rules didn't apply to the wealthy. He just wanted to go where mother had gone. Did AnnaBelle have a hearing? Was she told her days were nothing more than a number in a file now? He didn't know, he'd been so sheltered from the horrors growing up, or as much as he could be. Perhaps that's why he assumed it wasn't as big a deal as others made it seem. After all, mother was ok, wasn't she? And he would be too?

Yes, he would be too, he soothed himself as he drew his knees up, not wanting the sun, the biggest part of that outside world to touch his feet.

Yes, he would be safe, as long as he was here, safe, with the two brothers he loved.

)o(

Alistair wouldn't sleep that night. His mind was unusually quiet, but the palace was not. Someone was making an unholy racket on the third floor, directly above him. Sawing, hammering perhaps. Whatever it was gave him a royal fucking migraine.

Curious, though. The rhitd floor was mostly unoccupied. He wondered, vaguely, what purpose renovations could serve to a wing no one lived in.

)o(

Thank you to anyone who's been reading, and especially to those who reviewed!


	3. Tastes of Normalcy

"Alistair iiis going to be ok, right? I mean, he'd been doing really well this month, and his doctor did say he had too many pills in his system…that's what happened, right Odysseus? He just took too many? On accident?"

Odysseus sighed patiently, and wrapped a broad arm around Clovis's shoulders as they made their way down the palace's inhumanely long corridors.

"Course he's going to be ok," he assured his younger brother, and reached up to ruffle his blond hair affectionately. He chuckled as Clovis squealed and began to thrash out of Odysseus's grasp. He couldn't stand people messing with his hair, or rumpling his clothes. Their siblings had been piling money into a bet for years, trying to decide if he was obsessive-compulsive or flaming.

Clovis resumed his place, striding haughtily at Odysseus's side as he meticulously rearranged his hair. "That's what you said before, when he started saying he could hear people talking to him," the younger prince argued. He took a compact out of his pocket and checked his coif. "Then look what happened!"

Oddie nodded a little uncomfortably. He didn't like to have been proven wrong, especially around Clovis and Alistair. They looked up to him, Alistair especially, and trusted him. To be caught in a lie, or worse, completely wrong, always made him feel a little uneasy.

"I know. But he WAS doing better, Clovis. That whack job didn't know what he was doing. Alistair's too young to be on so many drugs."

"You said they'd make him better."

"We thought they would, Clovis," he corrected gently. They began a treck up on of the castle's many sprawling staircases, all 30 steps at the least. "And in better doses, maybe they would have worked. But we'll just have to try again. I for one don't think I want him back on antipsychotics. He's too young."

"But he'll be ok?" Clovis demanded another consolation. "Because Schneizel said the court's are getting more stringent, especially with people who aren't full-blood, and Alistair's mother was Scottish so-"

"But Alistair is a prince!" Oddie continued to argue. "If anyone can get around the laws, it's one of us."

Clovis nodded vaguely, and wondered out loud, "Couldn't father just over rule it?"

Both young men fell into an uncomfortable silence, as they always did whenever Charles was brought up as a factor in Alistair's life. The short answer was difficult; yes, he could. They were the sons of the Emperor, a man who ruled one third of the world in an almost absolute monarchy. Everyone knew the court systems, judicial restrictions and even the ruling power of a Viceroy was only so he didn't have to deal with day to day trivialities that didn't hold his attention. One word from father, and Alistair's life would never even have been threatened.

Charles, however, argued differently. Oddie recalled with painful detail, the coldness in father's voice as he dismissed his plea for a pardon on Alistair's behalf, 2 years ago when he'd first tried to end his life with a bottle of Excedrin. An example, he'd called his fourth son. A shining example of true justice and the strength powering Britannia's ethics. How would it look, he'd argued, if He proclaimed one word in law, yet let his own child escape his decisions?

In just three minutes, the emperor had reduced his own child to nothing more than a banner for genetic cleansing, a sacrifice he was eager to make.

Oddie felt his stomach turn sour as he reached for the keys to Alistair's now always-locked door. He could. Father could free him from a death sentence, but chose not to, all to save his image.

This was the first time Clovis had been allowed to see his brother since finding him on his bathroom floor, soaked in his own blood. Being only 14, the hospital's locked psychiatric ward wouldn't allow him as a visitor; not that they could have even tried, though. Clovis's image was far more known through the empire than Alistair's, being first of a higher birth order and also simply having more distinguished features. Alistair was able to hide in plain sight, given his relative anonyminity. It wouldn't do for the third prince to be bustling in to see him. Odysseus himself was able to tend his brother's bedside only through disguising it as an act of charity.

He backed away from the door, letting the younger boy rush in to find Alistair. It wasn't a difficult search, based on the emptiness of Alistair's rooms. With no seating left, his bed was the only place in his suite of any comfort, and he was found there, curled up with a paperback Odysseus had smuggled him that morning.

"Alistair!" Clovis shrieked, and sprang to leap onto the bed, a surprisingly undignified action for he usually prissy heir.

Alistair startled and dropped his book to the floor with a thunk.

"Jesus Christ Clovis, will your balls just drop already? You squeal like Euphemia!"

Clovis decided to diplomatically ignore the jab, and instead grabbed his brother by the shoulders and drew him in to hold.

"Alistair how dare you be gone for so long?" he wailed, and Oddie smirked from the doorway, seeing how Clovis tried in vein to mask his trauma. "I spent the last two weeks so bored! What was I to do without you?"

"Find someone else's hair to primp?" Alistair suggested, trying to weasel away from Clovis's suffocating embrace. He loved Clovis dearly, but breathing was a necessity.

"Hey, Clovis, I don't think Ali-Cat wants to become a conjoined twin," Odysseus laughed, and finally let himself into Alistair room, setting the tray on food down on top of the dresser.

Alistair smirked, and returned Clovis's skin-melding hug.

"Sure I do! Come on, Clovis. We could be, like, carnies or something! You can be the bearded lady."

"Would you take better care of yourself if you had to live with your nasty greasy hair next to my face your whole life?" Clovis wanted to know.

Alistair shook his head, making sure his oily, unwashed waves brushed against Clovis's pale skin. "Nu-uh."

This elicited another prepubescent squeal from Clovis, who immediately sprang from the bed and into Alistair's bathroom to scrub his face.

"Ali-Cat! Now he'll be in there for hours!" Oddie whined, only half mockingly. Their family had vanity running deep through them, but Clovis had a rival only in Guinevere; it was like a competition to see who could clutter their bathroom counters with the most frivolous, perfumed goods.

Alistair snorted, and made himself busy going through the dinner Oddie brought him.

"It's ok, I'm not using any of that shit anyway."

"I can tell," Oddie remarked, noting how bad Alistair's acne was getting again.

Alistair grumbled under his breath before tasting the hot pasta. His hygiene was a grounds of constant battle with his closest siblings. They were constantly antagonizing him to bathe more, scrubs his hair, keep his face clean, but he didn't really care. He figured they'd love him no matter how bad he smelled, and besides, no one else saw him, really, so who did he have to impress?

"You know," the first prince continued, "You'd probably feel better if you washed up more. Those can't be too comfortable."

Alistair adamantly ignored him in favor of a spaghetti Shangri-la, but absently picked at his face as he spoke. His complexion, as had become usual in the past year, was marred with hard, painful red marks that he constantly poked and pinched, much to his siblings chagrin. Clovis, in fact, tended to freak out and start smacked his hands with books and other handy objects.

"Alistair, stop picking at your face," Oddie sighed.

"Is he picking at his face again?" Clovis shrilled, and finally peeked around the door to the bathroom. Odysseus and Alistair both stared with raised eyebrows as he emerged with a pale pink face mask spread across his features.

Around a full mouth, Alistair finally cautioned, "Did…you get that from my bathroom?"

"Yes."

"…why the fuck did you buy me pink girly crap for my face?"

There was silence on Clovis's end.

"That's the brand you use, isn't it?" Alistair deadpanned.

"…yes."

"And you knew I wouldn't use it and planned on snitching it back."

Clovis stared back unblinkly. "Maybe," he conceded, before disappearing back into the bathroom.

"Nice trust there, Clovis!" Alistair barked after him. "This is why I'm fucked up, ya know. No moral support!"

Two sighs and sets of rolled eyes were his only response as he immediately went back to his dinner.

"Seriously though, Alistair," Clovis's voice echoed into the room amidst water splashing. "You ccould be so handsome if you just cleaned up!"

"Can't," he said. He washed down the last of his pasta with orange juice. "I'm gonna be the moon for Halloween. Gotta ripen up my craters."

A clunk resonated from the bathroom, going along swimmingly with Clovis's gagging.

Odysseus was surprised, really, that Clovis could even be in there…he suspected there was some major repression of emotions going on. And some denial. His little brothers seemed very good at that.

Clovis was patting his face dry with a plush white towel as he made himself at home on Alistair's bed again, though he shot his brother a warning glare.

"If I get so much as one blemish, I swear Alistair du Britannia, I'll hurt you."

Like he could, Alistair smirked to himself. "What's wrong, Clovis? Don't want a few zits to match mine?"

He shivered. "No! They're just…hideous! Gross!"

"Oh. So you think I'm ugly?"

"I didn't say that! Stop putting words in my mouth, Alistair!"

"Yeah, well, you meant it, admit it! You're just jealous! You know that someday when my acne clears up and I finally turn legal, I'm going to blossom into a ravishing hunk of a man who gets all the girls…not that you'd care about getting girls, but I'm sure some of them will have brothers."

Oddie stood st a safe distance, watching with a bemused smile as Alistair leapt forward to tackle Clovis off the side of the bed. It always gave him a bit of hope, seeing Alistair on his good days like this. He loved seeing him play, and roughhouse around, although he was beginning to get a little old for some of the childish games he liked to play. But Oddie permitted it. Alistair had lost the end of his childhood, and it didn't seem right to discourage whatever gave his brother pleasure.

These days, seeing Alistair healthy, happy and energetic was a welcome change, one that Odysseus treasured. Too often he'd wake to visit him brother, to find him in a daze, or screaming, or, worse of all, crying silently, light eyes wide with some terror only he could see. Those days, all Odysseus felt he could do was draw Alistair close, coo to him, hope he could hear him.

His psychiatrists were reluctant to label a child with as damning a word as Schizophrenia, but each seemed to agree he had so many signs of it, and given his poor mother…but Oddie didn't care. He'd been with Alistair since he was born, had helped look after him ever since his mother was diagnosed when he was still toddling around in rompers.

So these sorts of days, he lived for. They were a relief, on so many levels. He always thought, maybe now it's over. Maybe now this medication will work, this psychiatrist has the right idea. Maybe he can be normal. Even when his optimism was dashed time and time again with each relapse, he still looked forward to those short bursts of sunshine. It made the long stretches of thunderstorms seem more tolerable.

Besides, despite his congeniality and upbeat attitude about even something as depressing as this, he couldn't' ignore the simple fact that someday, Alistair might not be around to enjoy such sweet, simple moments of bliss.

In one month was Alistair's hearing, and father had appointed Odysseus to go in his stead, as Alistair's next of kin. 4 weeks could seem like such a long time if he tried, but to do so was dangerous. He had just thirty days to prepare a case on his brothers behalf, a task he wasn't looking forward to. He wasn't the brightest of his brothers. In fact, he readily described himself as mediocre in almost every way, at least those that mattered to his family. Who was he, to be able to explain why, medially and mentally, Alistair was of sound mind and deserved another reprieve? How could he argue for Alistair's cause without having to resort to simply showing him to the court, showing them his smile, how happy he could be? How could you possibly take the life of someone you love and put a value, a price on it in just one hour? It didn't seem fair, and the burden was weighing heavily upon his shoulders.

Still, he wouldn't let it show. He was nothing if not an optimist, after all, and it wouldn't help the younger boys to see the strain this was causing him. He'd done it before, three months ago, when Alistair had been improving, and felt so happy when it had been approved. Although, that was when Alistair was doing better, not after he'd tried to kill himself.

He shook his head gruffly. There was no room there for gloom right now. He had a pair of brothers to tackle, and an evening to enjoy with them. One more blessedly calm evening to be thankful for.

)o(

Next chapter will start getting into longer, more substantial updates. I hope you enjoyed.


	4. Thoughts Like Paint

Once upon a time, in a far distant memory, there lived a prince who loved nothing more than to turn off his alarm clock, roll over, and snooze away his mornings. This young, handsome and devilishly charming young royal would try everything he could to trick his mother and older brother into letting him ditch tutoring, piano, dance, and etiquette in favor of another hour of z's.

That, however, was an Alistair of a different time, one who hadn't yet experienced weeks upon end of not being physically able to lift himself out of bed, of being so depressed, so heavily medicated on a cocktail of pills and patches that the thought of rising exhausted him right back to sleep. The Alistair of the present couldn't tolerate lying in bed one minute after waking, not after so many days of lying in hospital beds. So every day, as the sun rose, so did Alistair. This presented another problem, though; how to fill his day.

He quickly became a practitioner of what he called snail-fu; taking every small, daily task and spreading it out to make it last as long as possible. He'd made a study of this ancient art before, but now he had to time to dedicate to its mastery. He made his bed with hospital corners, and each day attempted to see if he could tug his sheets tight enough to bounce a dime, like he'd seen on tv once. His few possessions were lined up in absolute precision, arranged by size, color, or age, depending on what day of the week it was. Eventually, he even submitted himself to a better routine of personal hygiene; he was sure not a one of his siblings had cleaner teeth.

Despite all this, though, there was still only so much to be done in his locked room. It was large, empty, and cavernous, and at a younger age it would have been ideal for the imaginations of himself and his older brother, but now Clovis was in school, and couldn't be his constant companion. That left Alistair to his own devices for entertainment, preoccupied by his own mind.

Didn't his family know how dangerous that was?

)o(

That afternoon Alistair had plenty to do. With an iced ankle and a ballpoint pen, he spent 3 hours copying down the phrase, "I do not have Spidey-senses and will not ascend my bedroom walls with bed sheets and candle wax."

)o(

He was also no longer allowed to use said bed sheets and smuggled twine to make a zip line across his living room.

)o(

The next day, Odysseus outlawed chewing gum, and Alistair had the bald spot behind his ear to show why.

)o(

"Clovis, did you know the average human arm has over 5,000 hairs?"

Clovis looked up over his drawing tablet. "How would you know that?"

Alistair sat tall with pride. "I counted!" he beamed.

Clovis nodded slowly. "Uh huuuh…that's funny. I heard most people nly hae about 3,000" and without another word he returned to his still life sketch.

Had he still been observing his brother he would have noted the way his eyes became coin-round, and he pulled up his shirt sleeves in a panic. Instead, he only heard his anguished wails, lamenting his lineage to Sasquatch.

)o(

"Wake up, Alistair"

It wasn't Oddie's baritone voice that shook him awake though; it was the crash of a half dozen thick, hardback textbooks colliding with the hardwood floor that jolted Alistair from his sunlight snooze.

"Holy sweet Jesus Oddie! I was sleeping!" Alistair whined pissily. It was 3 pm, the time when the warm afternoon sun started to pour through his soaring windows. Soon it would flood the room till it brimmed and boiled with desert heat. Curtains would prevent such baking, but he wasn't allowed them. But this mid afternoon light was perfect; enough to warm the floorboards and Alistair's skin.

Being as such, he wasn't pleased with being jolted from his catlike nap, even if it was from Odysseus.

Oddie tried to placate his crankiness with a plate laden with dinner; a thick turkey sandwich, peaches, baked potato and three cookies. Butter cookies, which he knew Alistair loved.

The young prince eyed the peace offering with measured skepticism. He plucked the sandwich from its fancy lettuce bed and pealed apart its layers to begin his investigation. Turkey, tomatoes, sweet onions, relish, mayonnaise and mustard. His lavish bite was the noble child's seal of approval.

"Your sacrifice pleases me," he chomped around a mouthful of poultry. "Next time I may not be so lenient."

"…You know I outrank you, Alistair," Oddie smirked, forever using his title as Crown Prince as his one dominance over his brothers. Well…that, and his old age and shear behemoth size.

Alistair contemplated his low standing next to his brother for a moment. "That is irrelevant!" he finally declared with another lavish bite of his dinner. "And I'll…think of a reason why later."

"Have I effectively distracted his majesty with food?" Odysseus smiled, ruffling Alistair's unusually clean hair.

He sidled away, and scooted his dinner tray with him. Alistair eyed both his brother and his stack of textbooks warily.

"I know you brought the food because I'm your favorite and you love me," he said cautiously. "But what's with the brain food?"

Oddie just smiled, and for the first time Alistair noted the tote bag he carried over one shoulder, only as he began to unload it. Notebooks, pens, pencils and rulers, one after another, found a home on the floor next to the books. He also withdrew a calculator with more buttons that a small laptop, and none of this was settling well with Alistair.

"These are some of my books from college," Oddie said, looking through them a little nostalgic. Alistair noted that all of the books were for remedial courses, which made him feel a little awkward. He'd like to pretend that the simple courses were merely a result of Oddie only attending college for two years, but these weren't freshman courses; they were mediocre freshman courses. Oddie seemed so smart to him; he always had answers for him and Clovis when they needed them, but times like these reminded Alistair that academically speaking, Oddie really wasn't very remarkable. It was Schneizel who was the genius of the family.

"I saved them once I dropped out; I don't know why. I knew they'd be outdated soon. Shoulda donated them I guess. But I figured I could continue my studies solo." Something akin to regret flinched across his face, but too quickly for Alistair to really register. "Anyway, these ARE mostly outdated, but not too bad. I don't think math has evolved that much. The history books are missing the most recent stuff, but that's not real important. It'll do."

Alistair opened the front cover of an Algebra book suspiciously. "Do for whaaat…?"

"For your lessons!" the exact answer he didn't want to hear.

"But I'm not in school anymore!" he protested immediately.

"I know," Odysseus countered with a smile. "You haven't even had a tutor visit in months. It's time you start again! Someday you'll be back in classes, and I don't want you to feel like you've been left behind! Now, we'll start with Algebra, and Civilized History. Tomorrow we'll have Literature, English-"

Alistair let his brother prattle on about his impromptu lesson plans, and leafed unsurely through the math book. Signs and cosigns and tangents and other words that made no sense…

"Are you going to teach me?" he wanted to know.

Oddie paused for a moment, as though hesitating. "…I promise you'll get better marks than I did in school," he swore desperately. "But I really think this is important. Besides, you need something productive to do."

Alistair couldn't argue with that, but eh still wasn't convinced this was a great idea. He had a feeling that his older brother had ulterior motives behind his thirst for knowledge.

"Odysseus...isn't my hearing coming up in two weeks? Shouldn't we be getting ready?"

THAT seemed to do it. The first prince's enthusiasm dwindled noticeably.

"Oh, yes, it is…but don't you worry about it Ali-Cat! I've got it under control. We're going to do fine. That's why it's so important for you to catch up! You'll be back in school before you know it. The Judge is going to clear you, I promise."

Alistair thought he was more than a little overeager to assure him, but he trusted Odysseus. He knew his brother was working on his appeal; it wouldn't go like the last one did. That had scared him straight, hearing the Judge proclaim he had one year left…just a few months ago. How wonderful and freeing it had been to be reprieved just seven weeks after for good progress. A clock stopped, 4 months now…surely Oddie wouldn't let it count down those last 10 months.

He seemed so invested in playing teacher that he just couldn't refuse. Though Alistair had a feeling he wouldn't be allowed to decline anyway. And he was right; he was bored senseless anymore, he was actually starting to miss the time lessons took up.

"Alright, Oddie," he agreed, picking up the Algebra book. "But if I get held back when I return to school, I'm blaming you."

)o(

"Homework, Clovis! He had the audacity to leave me homework!" Alistair threw his college-rule notebook across the room in a temperamental fit.

Clovis, who was use to his little brothers epic flare-ups, wasn't even fazed as recycled tree went whizzing past his head at a lethal speed.

"Can you believe him?" Alistair demanded. "I agreed to be tutored, not to have to finish 2 problems sets and a chapter of history by tomorrow!"

Clovis kept his composure, twirling a blond lock of hair around his finger calmly. "Well…what else would you have done with your night? Wank off a few into a sock?"

Clovis snorted to himself, but Alistair just paused, gave him an impatient glare and asked, "Do what into a sock?"

Clovis nearly choked trying not to laugh. "N-nothing, brother. Nothing. My point is, you need something to do anyway. Tell you what. You finish your math homework, and I'll bring in some of your art things; I found where they were hidden."

"And how did you do that?" Alistair asked, intrigued. Such an expansive palace, and his brother afraid of dirt!

Clovis smirked. "Oh, I know the castle," he said casually. "Grew up here after all.'

"So did I." Alistair deadpanned impatiently.

"I'm older!"

"By days"

"Still counts!"

Alistair studied him a minute, appraising. "You flirted with Schneizel for information again, didn't you?"

Clovis's pale, smooth skin instantly became blotched with an angry red blush. "I do NOT flirt with my own brother!" he shrieked indignantly.

Alistair said nothing for a long moment before scoffing. "Ooooh Schneizel!" he cooed in an exaggerated falsetto. "Is that a new cavarat? It looks just daaarling on you!"

"I do not sound like that! Clovis tossed back haughtily. "And I'll have you know it WAS fetching on him!"

Alistair burst into peels of laughter over his own mimicry. "Clovis, admit it. You're totally head over heals for Schneizel. But it's ok! We're royalty! We're all inbred!"

"You mean like Guinevere's mother? You know she's fathers cousin right?"

"And my mother's great great uncle was related to the Britannian family too. But not you. You're French. Nobody breeds with the French."

"…If you want your sketchbook, you'll knock it off, Mr. Alistair."

Alistair, still in peals of giggles, had no fear over Clovis's empty threats, but quieted his taunting all the same. His big brother was a big baby at times, and couldn't stand too much friendly fire.

Clovis did indeed make good on his promise. After an hour of math homework that came all inclusive with twenty straight minutes of bitching, he left Alistair's quarters, only to return with a large sketchbook, pencils, erasers and watercolor pens.

"Clovis, I could kiss you!" he beamed, glad to finally have some of his toxic chemicals and dangerous paraphernalia back.

"a genuflection and small bit of worshipping at my feet will suffice," Clovis retorted grandly, extending his right hand down to be kissed. Instead, Alistair yanked him down by said hand.

The sky outside Alistair's windows had darkened by now, the room being lit mostly by the soaring overhead lights, but the floor nearest the windows was illuminated pale blue by the moonlight, and the glittering lights from the city that surrounded then. It was an awe-inspiring sight for such young boys, even one as disillusioned as Alistair. To be in the midst of the capital city of the world's most powerful nation and still be able to rise above every edifice that soared towards the desert sky was a powerful feeling. Such a view spoke of his family's endless powerful, wealth, influence and nobility, and he felt a chilling sort of pride knowing that his home was being looked at by hundreds all around Pendragon. The Imperial Palace was set in the very heart of the buzzing metropolis, visible from every direction. Could anyone below see him? The small, thin boy sitting outlined in the windows? Would they recognize him as a prince who reigned above them?

He doubted it. He didn't feel very royal anymore. A prince didn't spend his days in backless hospital gowns, getting stabbed and poked and sent to sleep every time he expressed even a drop of displeasure. Alistair shuddered; he was grateful to be out of those places for a while.

He glanced up at his elder brother, still avidly rendering peaches and plumbs, and corrected himself. No, not for a while. Forever. The thought of being confined back into locked wards and padded cells was incomprehensible. There was nothing that could make him put his old mask back up to his acne-scarred face. He'd spent two years living a lie, one that could have him put to death. That incident with his medication…now that it was out of his system, he could understand. They were right, he hadn't wanted to end his own life. The first time, yes, but not now. He hoped that quack would be the one locked away.

It would be fine, he told himself softly. Alistair tucked a wave of coppery brown hair behind his ear, and let his pencil dance across the page, finding its way into a tree-thickened landscape. He loved art, a passion he was glad to share with Clovis. As a child, finger-paints and crayons had been a way to distract them, keep them quiet, but as he grew it became something more. It became power, control. He often heard people on tv and in his aunt's fancy art magazines talk about how spiritual art was, an abstract expression of one's deepest passions and desires.

Well. He wasn't sure about that. He just enjoyed being a creator, a craftsman. When he thought about it, looking at his work, a drawing was nothing more than a page covered in gray. He just had to know what areas needed to be dark, which lightened, where his lines needed to fade and taper or be bold and stand strong against each other. It was a craft, one that he just did. When his little brothers and sisters would ask him to teach them, he always refused. He didn't know how to do that. 'Know when to push down hard and when to be light,' was the only advice he could give, and what good was that?

There was just something…powerful about looking at a finished tablet and seeing every single centimeter covered in color, or ink, or paint. Britannia stood solid all around it, but within those neat, tidy edges was a world where his father couldn't enter, couldn't even touch. Sprawling landscapes were what he liked. Ocean shores and bloodmoon meadows, where every blade of grass was where he wanted it to be.

And as he drew, every time he drew, every time he dabbed his paintbrush into fresh acrylics, he heard Oddie's voice, just a year before, whispered in his ear as he held him close.

"Why can't you craft your mind like one of your paintings, Alistair? Where you put everything where it needs to be, nothing wrong, nothing out of place."

What a lovely idea, thought Alistair, closing his tablet and staring out at the cityscape. How neat and tidy his crowded mind could be, if only he could learn to paint his thoughts like he painted his canvases. Ordered and arranged and just how it should be.

No better time to try.

)o(

Two floors below, another sort of image was unfurling in the emperor's private quarters. Very few people were allowed into these most lavush of rooms; even Charles's own lovers and wives were kept away, excepting his most beautiful and bewitching. Marianne, Schneizel's mother Anna, before her death…

There was one guest, though, who was always welcome, and never questioned as to what business he had visiting the Britannian king. Though he held no such official title, the plethora of guards standing sight outside the doors always let him in with only a simple greeting of "m'lord". Once, he'd held a far grander title within the empire, but ah. Such days were behind him. None of those lackluster knights outside were old enough to even remember those times.

The visitor made himself comfortable, bidding the butler assigned to serve only the emperor and his guests to get him some tea, and something fresh to eat. He left promptly, leaving the man to his own business. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long; Charles was expecting him.

Comfortable in a posh leather armchair, he enjoyed his tea and the petite fours he had been served. A little dainty for his tastes, but considering his stature, he didn't expect to be served anything more refined. He'd have to complain about that.

"You said you'd arrive at 11."

The visitor smiles behind his teacup, replacing the fine china back onto its saucer.

"Forgive me, Charles. I wasn't expecting to be done consulting with the carpenters so soon. Really, I'm amazed at the help you can find here!"

His chipper attitude was not matched by his highness's. Charles wasn't the sort to jest, or joke, or make small talk. His smiles were never brought about by true uplifting news; only bits that meant the misfortune of another or a personal benefit to himself.

"Should you really be surprised? Charles countered, sinking into a chair opposite him. "All the same, I don't appreciate you arriving so early. It's still possible you'll encounter someone who'll recognize you."

A smile and a shake of the head. "Oh no, not after all this time. I assume most think I'm your distant nephew, or perhaps even one of your children. You have so many, Charles!"

"I have so many beautiful women willing to lie with me!" he retorted with a smirk, finally beginning to become as relaxed as the Britannian emperor ever did. He too bid for a drink, but one much stouter, and remained silent until it was brought, and the butler gone.

"I really must thank you for your generosity," the traveler began again to break the quiet, seeing no point in lingering longer over unneeded chat. "Do you know how boring it is, having so little to do?"

"What of the Order? Doesn't it keep you entertained?" Charles wanted to know.

He shrug. "Oh, I suppose. But you know how interested I've been in the boy. For something so foul to crop up in OUR bloodline…and I find him adorable."

Charles took a long swallow from his glass. "You find madness and screaming fits charming? I can't stand to even be in the same room as him."

"You're looking at it wrong, Charles. You have power and influence over billions, and I have only a handful of people to play with. You know my desires and diversions are the same as your own; can you blame me for needing a project?"

"You don't need to beg any further," Charles said in a warning tone. "I've already told you you could have Alistair. No one will be surprised that he fails his hearing on the 4th; the child's been lost to madness for years. I'll have him euthanized the moment it's legal. Such a waste of good blood."

A blond eyebrow rose ironically. "Legal? Since when do you need to go about with what's legal?"

Charles side and drained his scotch. "Believe me, if I'd have known he'd grow into something so worthless, I'd have had him drowned at birth. But it's best to make an example out of him. Follow the protocol, to show that no one's an exception, not even a son of the empire. He'll be taken out of public light after the hearing, and in less than a year's time, he'll be out of our hair. Until then, brother, you may do with him as you wish."

And V.V. smiled, eager to finally have a new toy to distract him.

)o(


	5. Never Why

Alistair in Britannian finery was at once a queer site and a natural one. A born and bred prince, he'd spent most of his life with silks and fine linens lying against his skin, with gold gleaming across his breast, but madness had given way to an awkwardness that made anything but a t shirt look queer. A torn pair of jeans, however, would look unsightly in a high court room. Thus, Alistair had been scrubbed and combed and acne-creamed till he looked as presentable as he could.

He fiddled anxiously with the pressed and pleated cuffs of his spotless white shirt. He hadn't eaten all morning, but his stomach was still churning in an upheaval, and the prince seriously thought he might throw up before they reached the courthouse.

"…I told you you're going to be fine, Ali-Cat"

Odysseus' deep voice at his left was comforting, but did little to quell his nausea. All Alistair could do was nod vaguely, and move from his cuffs to picking at a tender sore on his chin.

Oddie's hands were warm as he reached up to pull Alistair's away from his face. He shook his head. "You'll get more scars if you keep picking at those," he warned halfheartedly.

Alistair shrugged. "I'll just go to a fancy dermatologist and she can laser then off."

Then quiet. Nothing could really be said at the moment that hadn't been said already, and nothing could really calm a teenage boy who's life was about to be put into a stranger's hands. The first time around, over two year ago, Alistair had been in a completely different place. He didn't know what was going on, not when day after day Odysseus would visit and find him staring blankly into corners for hours upon hours, only to finally curl up on the floor and sleep just as long. He had no idea then, that a trial of 5 men and women had declared that he couldn't live to see 16 unless he cut this shit out.

But here he was, only 9 months shy of his original execution date, and he was facing the metaphorical hangman once more. This time, he was aware. He knew. No one back when he was 12 had said a word, not thinking he'd actually be able to understand anyway. But now he could, and his stomach gave another lurch.

"…Oddie?" he finally whispered, staring out the window at the gleaming, sleek walls of the city. When his brother hmm?'d in response, he finally asked, "What if they don't let me pass?"

Odysseus was glad Alistair was looking away; though he couldn't see his own expression, he could feel the hard, weary flush across his face. However, he was a Britannian prince, and though he didn't value deception and cunning to the same level as his younger brothers and sisters, Oddie was as much a craftsman of half truths and stretched lies as Schneizel.

"That won't happen, Alistair," he soothed, and adjusted the papers in his lap. He held in a small bundle an assortment of legal jargon and psycho-jumbo that he didn't fully understand, but knew were his tools to dig Alistair from this pit. Over the last two years, with no school to keep him busy, he spent most of his free time (that is, the few hours he spent away from Alistair) researching through enormous volumes of law texts and scouring the internet for any developments, specialists, anything that could treat his mind. His keyboard was worn down to a shine from typing every combination of "Disorganized" "Schizophrenia" "mania" and "delusions" that he could think of.

Now, it came to this. It may not be Alistair's last chance, but they really couldn't bank on another hearing. He was borne of the royal bloodline, but Father was so stringent about not bending the laws for his own son. Not that he really considered any of them to be anything more than just one sperm who managed to out swim the others. All it would take is the emperor's word, and Alistair could be unchained and free to live how he liked, with the unlimited care he needed. Instead, they were forced to plow through an almost impossible minefield of legalities and court systems.

"It's not going to happen. Look at you, you're doing so well!" and both of them had to make a point of not looking down at Alistair's wrists, and the healing scars his shirt sleeves demurely concealed. "A-and I know they'll see that. It's not going to be like that this time."

Alistair nodded, still looking out the window, the bright concrete and steel of the outside making his reflection almost invisible. He could see little more than a vague, hazy ghost of his outline, a few tendrils of dark waves, but nothing else. All his features were washed out from the sunlight. Though the car was cool and air conditioned, the glass was hot and comfortable when he leaned against it.

How comfortable this car was. Even without the luxurious leather interior and the spacious legroom here in the backseat, he'd have been just peachy being chauffeured around like this. The air was warm against his face but cool otherwise, and he let himself be lulled by the white noise of the electric motor, and by his brother's voice. He wasn't really listening, but his speech waws as familiar as his favorite jersey. You'll be fine, everything will be fine.

Why couldn't they just stay here? Drive past the courthouse, away from the walls of the city, drop their driver off at a tavern along the way and let Oddie take them away from here. Out of Arizona, maybe up somewhere cooler, or at least wetter. Florida sounded nice, or northern California. They could run away, move to Costa Rica, change their names to Francisco and Raul, and open a little crepe shop…yup. Totally. He was a little on the pale side, having spent most of the last two years in and out of hospitals, but a few days on a beach and some baby oil oughta cure that.

But…no. the car stopped in front of the courthouse, just as expected, and their doors were opened by the two bodyguards sitting in the partitioned second row in front of them.

'Taking me to my death, and they're worried about my health,' Alistair thought ironically, the uncomfortably large, suited man keeping close to him as he himself stuck to his brother's side.

He'd never actually been inside the courthouse, not having been present at his first hearing…he didn't like to contemplate the lack of justice in that. This was Britannia, where justice and social equality had a much different meaning than it did to the rest of the world.

As with anywhere else worth stature, Pendragon's House of High Court just reeked of privilege and power. On every wall were scenes and portraits of a history Alistair once felt entitled to call his personal lineage. Her first Royal Highness, her consort, the men and women who retreated from the onslaught of Europe for the new world, people he supposed he could call his great-something grandparents. Would they recognize their beautiful Britannia as it was now? Of course pride and arrogance ran as deep into thie world as did Sakuradite, but one had to wonder if perhaps they'd been a tad more…un asshole-y.

He couldn't' really call it a corrupt system; it ran efficiently. That much was obvious, with the rabid expansion the empire had been going through as of late. 3 areas added in just two years, from what little Alistair knew, and rumors of a weapon in development that would change the face of the front lines.

No, a corrupt government was one that sought to deceive and undermine it's own people first and foremost, whereas under Britannia rule, even the lowest farmer's child was considered a ruby when compared to any Lord from the EU or, worse, a noble from China, Japan, or the Middle East and Africa. Skin color wasn't what made a Britannian one of the elite so much as it was culture. Not even their clever historians could change the fact that theirs was a country built on immigration. Hundreds of thousands of nationals from the lower America's, the Orient and, yes, Europe had built up the country's aristocracy and peasant folk long before its regime of I'm-Better-Then-You.

Alistair, though, couldn't really care less anymore. Whatever these white-haired dead bastards thought back then was irrelevant to Britannia's prime laws today; The strong survive, and put the weak out of their misery, and with his delusion, fits, depression and suicidal idealations, he was the weakest person he knew.

It was a sobering thought.

\Under the gaze of his forefathers (were their eyes reproachful? Sympathetic? He couldn't tell.) he followed just a step behind Odysseus. Being who they were, there really wasn't much need to present ID or go through security. In fact, he was sure it was the employees here today who had been screened through every fold of clothing and every orifice. He shuddered.

He wondered what was going to happen. His brother had tried to explain in briefe what the trial was like, but he could sense that he didn't want to give Alistair too much fodder to dwell on, seeming to think ignorance was a blessing. Dumbass. Alistair was an artist; didn't he realize that the images he could conjure up to fill the void were likely far more unsettling than any knockoff of Judge Nancy?

He longed to be home. He wanted to go stretch out on the sun warmed floorboard in his living room and draw. He could imagine how the vaulted, nearly empty room would echo every tap he made with his pencil. Even the whisper-soft brushing of papers would fill the room, making it feel lived in and comforting. He may live in a world of colors and form and depth, but the near silence of his quarters reminded him far too much of a funeral parlor.

He hiccupped behind his hind; the comparison was making him queasy. He didn't want to face home thinking of it like a mausoleum. It was home. It may be lonely, and sometimes so quiet and echo filled, but it was where he lived, once with his mother…it should be a place of peace, not something he dreaded returning home to.

No, he decided this courthouse was much more like a tomb. It was lifeless, dreary despite its decorated hangings and trimmings, and not a soul they met seemed to have one scrap of cheer. He looked back at each of them bitterly. Did they know who he was? Would they recognize his face if he wasn't with his elder brother? And if so, did they know why he was here? He was fucking royalty! There was a chance he would rule them all one day!…ok, he was 45th in line for the throne now, but hey! It could happen!

A startlingly loud thunk brought Alistaur out of his internal ranting, and he looked around him. Oddie was encouraging him to take a seat on a small, tackily upholstered chair. With the seating arranged around the walls, all of which were mostly bare, save for a bland waterscape, it looked like a waiting room. Alistair knew waiting rooms, he'd been in enough, and he always judged the integrity of the doctor, shrink or physician he was about to meet on their waiting rooms. Coffee was a nice touch; too much, or the addition of a pop machine meant you'd be waiting half your day. Lego tables were never a good sign, and usually meant he was about to be talked to with the vocabulary of a first grade teacher. And God help him if there was too many gag inducing signs of over the top patriotism.

This room's overall blandness indicated a need to appeal to the lowest common denominator among all prospective visitors; misery. No one came to court to spew sunshine and rainbows; they came to have someone else sort of the shit they couldn't plow through themselves.

He sighed, and sunk down into the hard chair. They weren't alone. Two other men sat across from them. One was perhaps in his late forties, with dark blond hair peppered with the years. While he tried to amuse himself with a golf magazine, the man to his right just kept his eyes on the floor. He was far older, by twenty years at least, and what hair he had left was gray. Under the sleeves of his polo, his thin arms were covered in sagging wrinkles, to match the heavy lines pulling down his eyes, cheeks and chin.

Alistair knew it wasn't proper, especially crass behavior for a prince, but he couldn't look away. The old man was the most interesting thing in the room, after all. He guessed he was about 60, maybe. Sixties, seventies…he couldn't be sure. Although their father was well into his fifties, his only real marks of age was his heavily grayed hair, beginning to recede. Otherwise, he was just world-hardened. Aside from the emperor, Alistair really didn't have anyone comparison for this mans age. He didn't really know any elderly people. By the time they reached Father's age, their bodies tended to start wearing out. Muscles ached, health decreased, and the general quality of life dimished with each year.

At least, that's what his school textbooks said. But looking at this man…he didn't look terribly infirm. He didn't see a cane or a walker, and though he was thin, he wasn't gaunt. His face was crisscrossed with crows feet and laugh lines, yet his eyes didn't have a deadened stare like he assumed they would, being so old.

'He must have cancer or something,' Alistair reasoned. He still had his hair though…perhaps chemo wasn't an option. That made sense as to why he'd be here, after all.

A door opposite the one they entered opened up, with a smartly uniformed man indicating the men across from them to follow; it was their turn.

The younger man, the son he guessed, rose and followed, both waiting impatiently for the other, who rose to his feet with a slight creek to his knees.

'Look away, look away, look away…' Alistair told himself, but he couldn't, and just as he feared, grandpa there met his eyes as he passed. They were warm and hazel and seemed so friendly, but they looked sorrowful, turned to Alistair.

The young prince pressed himself awkwardly back into his seat, and ducked his head down, but still couldn't look away. He didn't really need to, though. After a moment, the old man sighed, shook his head and plodded obediently after his son and the officer. The thunk of the heavy double doors was as jarring now as when they had entered.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Odysseus looking sidelong at him, but neither said anything. They both knew what was going to be the verdict here.

Alistair anxiously watched the doors, waiting for them to come back through. He…didn't know why. It's not like he'd have the nerve to ask the man what happened. It wasn't any of his business anyway. But he figured he'd be able to tell somehow…

However, when the doors opened next, it was to let through neither a freed man nor a condemned, but to usher them inside.

Alistair's stomach seemed to have filled with lead. It both clenched his innards and weighed him down to the seat more effectively than modeling paste.

"Alistair…let's go," Oddie urged gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. When Alistair still couldn't bring himself to rise, his eyes flickering nervously over to a now impatient baliff. He knew he had reason to be on edge; Alistair was on trial to prove he was mentality competent, yet here he was, seemingly too retarded to follow a simple order.

There was a shake in Odysseus' voice as he repeated, "Ali-Cat, it's us now. Come on…"

He wanted to. He knew he needed to. No matter how eloquent of a speaker Oddie was (and he wasn't) nor how convincing a testimony his shrink gave, a first impression would weigh just as heavily, if not more so, on the minds of his jury.

He needed to get up.

Finally, unsteadily, he rose, but refused to take the hand Oddie offered him. A child would hold their older brothers hand, or someone who was retarded. He couldn't appear to be either. He couldn't afford to.

On tv, courtrooms were always impressive spaces covered in mahogany paneling and gleaming floors, with a bank of windows facing west for the best dramatic lighting. He was a little disappointed to find himself in a plain white walled room with a few buffet tables set before a pale, simple judge's bench. His nose wrinkled; it screamed tacky after school program mess hall, really, but he realized that this office was likely used specifically for Right to Mercy hearings.

Mercy…that's what they called this. Alistair took his seat, that word ringing through his head. A Right to Mercy trial was suppose to be in the best interest of the ill, delegating whether they should be humanely euthanized to put an end to their suffering…the only suffering Alistair was having was his hear racing through his chest in fear.

Under the table, Oddie gave his hand a squeeze. he held his so firmly, warm and broad. As his thumb swept over the back of his hand, he let go of a deep, almost aching breath.

'I'm fine. This is going to be fine.'

Even as a half dozen bored looking men and women filed in before them, all rising to greet them, he knew, with his brother there, he'd be fine. Odysseus wouldn't let it be any other way.

)o(

"_Oddie? What's this word?" Alistair pointed to a string of letters in his social studies book._

_Oddie craned his neck over and turned the book to see. Oooh he wasn't even going to try and get his kid brother to sound it out._

"_That's 'eugenics,' Ali-Cat," he said._

_The child tried the word on his own tongue. "Euginits," he tried, then shook his head. "Eu…genics."_

_Oddie nodded, going back to his own book. He was prepping for his junior finals, and considering his penchant for under achieving, he really wasn't too worried. He'd get into some sort of college regardless. If not, there was always the military. Through that sounded like it'd suck worse._

"_And what does that mean?" Alistair wanted to know. He'd heard the word before, and felt very proud that he could now read it._

_Oddie just made a noncommittal grunt, which was his usual way of saying, I don't know or I'm busy, ask someone else._

"_It means making the next generation better than this one by not letting some people have kids, or by helping people who are old or sick not have to be in pain anymore."_

_Alistair looked up; he hadn't even heard Guinevere walk in. His oldest sister, she was just a few months younger than Oddie, and very pretty in Alistair's eyes, even if her face always looked a little pinched, like she always had a bad smell under her nose. Oddie said she thought she was a better Britannian than her brothers and sisters because she could trace her family back to the original royal line on both sides. Considering how little contact she had with Alistair, it seemed a spot-on appraisal. _

"_Oh…ow do you make them not hurt anymore? Medicine?" the second grader ventured, never one to take just the brief reply._

_She scoffed, and flicked a lock of dusty lavender hair over her shoulder. She looked at Alistair as though his ignorance was surely a character flaw, and not merely a result of being 7 years old. "When someone is really old or sick or has something wrong with them, they're better off being helped to let go. It's better for them, and for the country, because it costs a lot of money to take care of someone who can't ever pay anything back to society."_

"_Oooh." Alistair vaguely. "So it's like when someone's dog gets ran over and they have it put to sleep?"_

"_Exactly." She said, before brushing on past to wherever it was she was heading. _

_Alistair watched her leave, and paragraphed his answer as best he could to fit on the blank line of his worksheet. No one in the room paid any mind to the fact that despite all the how's, what's and who's, the one question a child of the emperor would never think to ask, Why._

_)o(_

Quiet. No words. Only the demure pure of the engine to break an otherwise silent vacuum. In the back seat, Alistair stared now at the floor rather than out the window. He stared at his shoes, their impeccably shined tops reflecting a skewed and swirled image of the sky and back of the seat in front of them. But Alistair wasn't thinking about shoes or skies or car seats. He was recalling a conversation long obsolete, words that shouldn't mean anything to him now. Eugenics was just suppose to be a word in a book, the C answer in a multiple choice quiz.

On Oddie's lap, tucked away in a file, bore a paper with a large red ink mark, and a date scrawled in some middle age bitch's hand. February 4, 2009 a.t.b.

Alistair didn't think he was going to be marking that particular date on his Paintings of the Renaissance calendar.

)o(


	6. Sleepless

Sleep had become Alistair's dearest company in recent months. While his older brothers brought with them love, compassion and strength during their visits, rare as they often were, it was sleep that brought the one thing Alistair truly sought; escape. Freedom. The ability to forego the stifling restraints this world had on him. Lucidity held him with cold, irdon chains that dug into his skin and forced him still by his throat and wrists. He never truly held them release while he was awake. They may loosen and drape over his arms calmly while he painted, or while being subject to Clovis's grooming, but never did they truly untie him.

Once the menial distractions were gone, the chains returned to tear open tender and barely mending wounds. They tore into his flesh to remain as permanent reminders; you're not safe. You can't truly declare your freedom. We own you. Your country owns you. Those of your own flesh and blood and heritage both control and shun you.

They constantly taunted him, never letting him feel truly at peace. His brothers could soothe him, fill his mind with pleasant stories and what if's for the future, but they only suppressed the truth. Alistair's reality wasn't one of parties he may some day attend, or schools he might be accepted to in some years. His world only flirted with the stories his family told of a society he wasn't a part of.

Alistair's reality, his waking moments, was constantly overcast by the true and looming possibility that he might be dead in a year's time.

But sleep consoled him. Though he'd crawl into bed knowing this, and wake up with him imminent grave on his mind, the few hours in between were almost always free of those obsessive thoughts. Nightmares occurred, but rarely, leaving the prince with wonderful lapses in consciousness, blessed escapes into a dreamworld.

But slumber had been a rarity this week. Since he arrived home from his trial, he supposed he's caught maybe 12 hours of sleep in total. He would crawl into bed, fingering the soft texture of his new sheets, and beg his body to sleep, but it rarely conceded.

New sheets, his old furniture, all arranged how it had been. Heavy drapes to shield his great room from the scorching afternoon sun. His easel, his palette, everything was back at it had been now. They must not see it as important now, to keep him from such dangerous hazards as dental floss. He was marked for death, so who cared now if he just hurried things along a bit?

He peered over to the large bank of windows, where his newest canvas was setup. The presence of his painting supplies marked this. Most of them came with warning labels foretelling a lifetime of cancer, birth defects and some horrific disorder where he assumed you pretty much hacked your lung up one bloody mass at a time. So it was essentially the Picasso version of standing in front of the microwave while pregnant.

"Maybe it's a good thing I'm gonna die," he bemused. "My kids would all have 3 arms anyway."

He was pondering just what would happen if he went on an artistic madman spree and smothered himself in sealant and gesso, whether he'd become something suitable for a lab study or a comic book, when a soft knock on his door begged his attention.

He ignored it. Whoever it was would let themselves in anyway.

Clovis's heeled boots clicked slowly across the hardwood. He should have known; Oddie had barely visited him this week. The shame across his face was evident, even when his eyes were trained to the floor. Alistair knew; he felt like a failure, like he'd let Alistair down. Pain filled his own chest when he found himself unable to truly feel otherwise.

"Hey. Ali-cat…!" Clovis tried to sound chipper, and upbeat, but it just came across strained. It reminded Alistair of how people always acted in movies when entering a hospital room. Hushed, with big smiles plastered across their faces, and soft tear filled eyes. Alistair wondered if Clovis would appreciate the dramatic atmosphere if he responded with a slow head turn, a squint, and a "Brother...is that you?"

He wagered on no. Which was a pity; Clovis has a flair for the overdramatic. But lately, it seemed Alistair couldn't so much as complain about his nonexistent diabetes flaring up again to get his family in a horrified, coddling tizzy. For a boy who thrived on hyperbole, idiom and sarcastic wit to fill up the uncomfortable silences, this posed quite a problem. How was he supposed to complain about the lack of comfortable seating by saying his ass was killing him without Oddie attempting to disarm his derier?

Clovis sat next to his brother. Alistair had hardly moved all day, quite comfortable where he was. The great room in his apartment was so spacious, yet cozy at the same time. Nearly twenty feet wide and twice as long, it was easily the most spacious and comfortable room in his suite. One wall was almost nothing but floor to ceiling windows, now swathed in heavy blue draperies, fringed in gold. The wallpaper was gold and cream, running in thick stripes from rich chocolate crown molding to the enameled paneling running four feet up each wall. The hardwood running over the entire floor gleamed, as perfect and unscuffed on the edges as it was under the protection of the truly giant blue and gold Persian rug.

Alistair fucking loved that rug, and he showed it now by staring intently at it. His true motive was to avoid Clovis's awkward condolences again for as long as possible, hoping he would think he was intensely appreciative of fine Asian craftsmanship and a high thread count.

Though he really did fucking love that rug.

He and Clovis spent much of their childhood rolling around on this rug, which wouldn't have meant much, except for where the rug was. They rarely played in Alistairs home, his part of the palace, considering what delicate condition his mother was usually in. Playtime was almost exclusively outside, or with Clovis's mother. Rolling and romping around on this carpet meant Annabelle was having a well spell. It meant her emotions were all aligned how they were suppose to, and she could be trusted to be around small children without traumatizing them for life.

Clovis, following Alistair's gaze, also had a small appreciation for that rug.

"They never could get that stain out," he ventured, pointing to a faint blotch darkening the royal blue to a deep less regally named navy. "That was where you spilled your rinse water."

No, that wasn't it at all. It was where Clovis decided that four fizzy cans of pop didn't go very well with rich birthday cake with buttercream icing, chocolate candy and a milkshake. But Alistair didn't feel like falling for the bait. He'd correct him in a smart ass way, Clovis would act indignant, he'd take a jab at his supposed sexual orientation…it was normally a familiar routine, a comedic play that no one else would really see as funny, but was as comfortable as a favorite pair of slippers. For now, though, Alistair couldn't concur up the will to snark back.

12 hours of sleep in 6 days could do that to someone. He felt so damned exhausted. He'd been sitting there for hours, unable to move, but not able to sleep either. He wondered if he sat there long enough, if he'd just pass out from sleep deprivation. Sounded nice enough. Sort of like those sedative-induced mini comas he often woke from in hospitals; intensely disturbing when he examined the circumstances, but the best fucking sleep of his life.

Clovis didn't seem willing to let that happen, though. He traipsed all the way up here to see his death row inmate of a brother, and he was damn well going to get the most for his troubles!

He coughed. "Er…Alistair?" he began. Alistair gave a noncommittal twitch. Something that said, I may not be listening, but I am conscious enough to respond to audio stimuli.

"Right…" Clovis flipped a lock of pale hair over his shoulder. "Well. I see you have your paints back."

Alistair glanced over. "Yeah. I guess they figure they can save themselves the price of a triple dose of Pavulon, if I asphyxiate on a can of Winsor-Newton first."

Through his peripheral vision, Alistair could see his brother visibly flinch. At various points over the past two years, such a reaction would elicit feelings of delicious triumph in Alistair, who would have been quite pleased with himself. At others, he would have been enveloped by an immediate guilt compelling him to crawl into their laps and cry and cling.

He wasn't in the mood for clinging, or touching at all, yet he didn't have the will to shove Clovis's hand away when it came to rest gently on his shoulder. His hand was warm through his t-shirt, and he felt rather comforted just by being able to feel it. He'd felt so little over this past week. No fear, no grief, no terror. There wasn't acceptance yet, and he doubted that there ever would be. There was only a hollow, empty numbness that seemed to encase his entire being. Save, of course, for the ever scratching feeling of unrest at the back of his mind.

The prince didn't push his older brother off when he reached out to pull him into his thin arms, encasing him in linen, silk and the scent of ginger. He must have been to dinner recently. Was it already evening? He didn't know. He supposed so. The drapes were framed and their edges softened by the fiery light seeping from behind them.

Alistair wasn't hungry.

Clovis's chest wasn't broad and strong like Odysseus's was. It wasn't built to comfort and hold someone abreast, nor were his hands strong enough to truly make him feel safe and protected, but Alistair didn't refuse their attempts to sooth.

He thought, maybe, he was crying, but he couldn't be sure. He couldn't feel them, no burn at his throat or behind his eyes. But somehow his face was wet and he found himself shaking, a choked gasping sound to offset Clovis's gentle shushing.

)o(

"Father, please, I only need a moment of your time!" Odysseus begged of the emperor. He'd hardly had time to lower himself on one knee and address the man who'd given him life in the coldest and most formal way possible when he'd been dismissed.

His majesty tried to wave his firstborn on, his face bored and unresponsive. His voice was deep and scornful as it filled his throne room.

"I know what you're here about, Odysseus," he droned. "And I already know about it."

"You mean about your son," Odysseus brazenly corrected, trying to keep his tone reverent to counteract his attitude.

Not even a flicker of acknowledgement crossed Charles's face, though he knew his father recognized this small bit of impatience.

"I know about the hearing," he affirmed. He seemed intent on keeping the conversation as dry and legal as possible. "I was delivered his papers before you even arrived home."

"Then why did you wait almost a week before allowing me an audience?" he wanted to know.

Charles sunk deeper into his throne, seeming quite comfortable for one whose child was to be euthanized in nine months time. Indeed he seemed almost casual as his gloved hand pushed back a heavy curtain of heavily grayed hair.

"It's an unimportant matter," he said, once again trying to get Odysseus out of his sight.

But Alistair wasn't the only one who hadn't been getting a full night's rest, and a lack of sleep wasn't doing anything positive for the first prince's inhibitions. Where fear and reverence generally had him shrinking from his father well before he'd fully made his point, he really didn't have terribly much to loose right now. Alistair was already legally dead, if he wanted to get technical, and the most that could be done to him was a stripping of power, which he already cared little for.

"I think the life of one's child should be a very important matter," he challenged, drudging up a bravery that was unlike him. He wondered if his father would at least be slightly impressed with his brazen attitude. Well, brazen for him.

Nothing. A wave of his hand. On each side, his guards stood on edge, awaiting their turn to stretch their legs, and their gun arms, if this situation continued to escalate.

Oddie scowled. "Father, Alistair will be dead before next spring, and you alone have the power to stop it!" he insisted, though he had already pleaded this case a thousand times before. "You don't need to make an example out of him! Tell everyone he's recovering, showing improvement! I know that with more time, and care, Alistair can keep getting better! All he needs i-"

"Is the right doctor," Charles finished mockingly. "Or the right medication, the right hospital. Yes. Because that has done him quite well heretofore."

Odysseus grimaced at his crass treatment of such a delicate subject. It was all he could do to keep himself bowed subjectively before this man. He won't lie and deny that he wasn't fearful as the emperor stood.

"Odysseus, you're not my brightest child, but I assumed you better off than this," he tsked. "Alistair is weak. A hospital will do him no good at this point, and you know that!" heavy boots strode forward, and Odysseus bowed his head lower, feeling his hear begin to race in his chest. Hardly even a disobedient word, and he was going to be punished, he was sure.

"However…" Charles bemused, stopping so close to his firstborn that Odysseus could see his reflection in his glossed, black boots. "However, He has shown a certain fighting Britannian spirit one does not tend to see in those as inform as he," Charles conceded.

Oddie didn't move, and didn't dare to breathe, hardly. He was afraid the sound of air too quickly passing from his lips would obscure whatever words his father spoke.

"Odysseus, I waited to speak to you till now because Alistair's health is a subject of little importance," he repeated, "But also because his situation has already been taken care of."

He let his heart soar upwards, hopeful, for all of four seconds. Was father going to send him somewhere for help? Write a formal stay of execution? Free him?

…His brothers and sister always did call him a fool.

His fathers plans were not those of inspiring peace or health. Instead, he merely informed the Crown Prince of certain remodeling going on in the East wing of the third floor. A whole corner of the palace sealed off, locked. A safe a shrouded bit of living space for Alistair to live his final months in supposed peace. Protected from those prying for a look at him, from the stress of palace life.

Odysseus listened with ears he wished would fall deaf. This didn't sound like a sanctuary for the ill. It sounded like a prison, a soundproof jail cell to put away something you wished to quickly forget. It was like putting him into storage, and here he was lauding ti as though it was a gift of mercy to his poor, deranged son!

He glowed, still facing the floor, resisting the urge to spit at those impossibly shiny boots. Far too pristine, the apparel of a man who had nothing to do with the tru workings of his family. Oddie's clothes were stained with blood, with sickness and sweat and tears from his brothers care, But Charles had never even came to see Alistair, not even as he lay so weak in intensive care, body nearly drained of life giving blood.

"It's really what's best for him, Odysseus," his father voice simpered, and he didn't even pretend it was any tone but entertained malice. He knelt down before Odysseus, in a mirrored stance to his own genuflection. "Alistair is holding you back, can't you see that? You're wasting what little intelligence you have playing nurse to a boy who'll never amount to anything. Even if his psychosis abates, he's lost too many years to this sickness to gain them back timely! And what of Clovis? Would you really continue to hinder his well being for the sake of Alistairs?"

He made no reply. The fact that he was dragging Clovis into this debate was enough to clench his fists, nails digging into his palms.

Charles was smirking. He could hear it in his voice. "Really, Odysseus. Just accept this token. You have nine months left to throw your brother a funeral fit for royalty!"

Finally Odysseus lifted his head to meet his fathers eyes, but still couldn't speak. He couldn't. There weren't any words left, no insisting or arguing or pleading.

Instead, he merely conjured up his formerly scrapped compulsion, and spit squarely in his fathers face.

)o(

Later, he would tell Alistair not to worry, not to be concerned. The bruises hardly hurt at all, really. No, they were only tender. He should have known better, really, than to try and ride a horse not yet broken.

And he knew Alistair would believe it unquestioningly, lapping up every word from his brother, his hero.

)o(


End file.
